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Is this a poem about “Steam Enigmas” or is the steam a metaphor for the ungraspable rain? We can ignore the question, when you ask it, and sometimes that IS the point. Like shower haze on the mirror, on the scolded skin, you’d forgotten they were there. That it was always theirs. Lost in the fog of thought. Dwelling over yesterday. And perhaps in the weight of it all, into the heavy that sinks you into the earth, the point is also revolving around, spin, spinning, spun, until words connect together, but attempt so out of place. Without any reason at all, we try, but no more than this description, to grasp, to scold, to spin around and pull ourselves from the void- all in the futile attempt to make ourselves into light, into steam.

Here, check’m out:

Bus Stop

Factions of Remind

Practicing the Art of Meditation